


The Long And Winding Road

by CherryBlossomTide



Series: Once There Was A Way To Get Back Home [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eating Disorders, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-01-14 03:12:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1250554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherryBlossomTide/pseuds/CherryBlossomTide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Get Back

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of the Once There Was A Way series and will probably make very little sense if you haven't read the previous fics. Not series 3 compliant.

John leans back in the passenger seat of the car, eyes momentarily fluttering closed. He'd been so nervous about this moment, about leaving. But he actually feels pretty relaxed. There's something about travelling, he thinks, watching the scenery flash past the window and listening to the air buffeting in through Sherlock's part open window. Something about being in between places. You don't have anything pressing on your attention. Nothing to worry about. It feels – good.

He glances sideways at Sherlock, whose pale eyes are fixed on the road ahead. He'd always thought it was a bit incongruous, the sight of Sherlock at the wheel of a car. It's a such mundane form of transport for someone who at the best of times looks like they've wandered in out of some kind of Victorian moorland drama and at the worst like they'd escaped from between the pages of a comic book. He ought to be able to spread out the train of his coat and just fly around, or maybe be carried on a purple canopy by a fleet of admirers, like a roman emperor. Something ridiculous and a bit otherworldly, like him.

Driving is something real people do, in their real lives. It calls to mind test centres, and little yellow L's, teenage awkwardness and scraped bumpers. John tries to imagine teenage Sherlock stumbling through a three point turn under the eye of some crusty examiner. The thought of it sends an unexpected stab of something very like pain through him.

"All right?" A pair of pale eyes are cut to his face in the wing mirror.

"Yeah," says John."You?"

"Yes."

John smiles to himself and settles back in his seat. The sky is grey, soft clouds rolling low over green fields. A light drizzle of rain spatters the windshield, and John leans back further in his seat, and lets his eyes close.

*

He's woken by Sherlock, tentatively placing a hand on his sleeve.

"We're here,"

John starts, looks up, sees the familiar street ahead of him, pavement speckled dark grey with rain. He turns to Sherlock, whose intensely questioning expression is wiped from his face just a second too late for John to miss it.

"Home at last," John says, with a smile. Sherlock blinks once, and then abruptly his face spilts into a grin.

"Come on, then." Sherlock says.

*

Once they get inside everything goes to hell very quickly.

John steps in the door to be met with a squeak of joy from Mrs Hudson.

"John! Oh my goodness, you're back!"

"Hello," John says. "Sherlock didn't tell you I was coming, then?"

"He didn't, the naughty boy. Oh it's good to see your face again," Mrs Hudson reaches up to pat his cheek. "You know, he's been going spare without you, we both have. My ceiling tiles will never be the same. Still, I can see that holiday has done you good. You were looking so thin before, it's good to see you with a bit of weight back on."

John does a very good job of not flinching, he thinks, but it still takes him a second to force the smile back on his face and open his mouth to say thank you.

Unfortunately by this time a rather sharp shoulder has inserted itself between him and Mrs Hudson, and Sherlock is looming over the poor woman, blocking John from view.

"Mrs Hudson," he says in acid tones. "Do you think you could possibly keep your idiotic observations to yourself. Simply because you have no other occupation than poking your nose into other people's lives, do you honestly think we want your addle headed, ridiculous…."

" _Sherlock_ ," John's bites out.

Sherlock turns to look at him, but John refuses to meet his eye.

"Sorry, Mrs Hudson. Sherlock's a bit – excited. Both are, I expect. Been a long time."

Mrs Hudson who had been gaping, closes her mouth abruptly. "Of course," she says. "I'll leave you boys to it. Maybe we can have tea later, John, when you've settled in a bit."

"That'd be nice," John forces a smile and then turns rigidly to climb the stairs. He can feel Sherlock, a silent presence, gliding up behind him.

John pauses in the entrance to the flat, briefly overwhelmed by the flood of familiarity overtaking him. He'd forgotten somehow, how this place feels. The details of it. The way the floorboards creak, the particular smell, chemicals mixed with tea and newspaper ink.

Sherlock is behind him, a little too close, warm breath ticking the top of John's head.

John takes a breath, makes himself unclench his fists, and walks to the kitchen.

"Tea?"

Sherlock inclines his head in acquiescence, his eyes still fixed watchfully on John. John ignores him, reaching for the mugs, and placing them on the counter.

"These clean?"

"Of course,"

There's a short silence, during John busies himself with the kettle.

"You're angry with me." Sherlock states, at last.

"You didn't have to shout at her."

Sherlock makes a noise in the back of his throat that could be disagreement or acknowledgement, John isn't sure.

John pulls open the fridge door to get the milk. He pauses.

The fridge is full. More surprisingly, it is full of food. The crisper if a riot of colourful vegetables, the shelves neatly stacked with yogurts, meat, cheeses, a pot of readymade risotto, soups. John stares at it for a moment before carefully closing the door again.

"You went shopping."

"Yes," Sherlock says, coming a little closer. "Problem?"

"No." John says. He hesitates, and the kettle behind him clicks off.

"Actually, I think I'll skip the tea," he says. "Need a lie down."

Sherlock's mouth opens as if to object, but apparently can't think of anything to say. John pushes past him and walks up to his room.

John lies on his back on the bed, eyes tracing over the crack in the ceiling above him and tries to think of nothing. It's just grumpiness, he thinks. Tiredness and too much emotion, settling over his skin like an ugly film, making everything familiar and loved about this place feel off-key and wrong. He'll feel better if he sleeps. He rests his hand on his stomach, and can't help suddenly feeling conscious of the little swell of flesh that rises over the hem of his jeans. Where had that come from? Why hadn't he noticed? No wonder Mrs Hudson…

John takes a deep breath and lifts his arms, placing them behind his head instead. The weight of it would cut off his circulation in time but it was better than thinking. Determinedly, John closes his eyes.

*

When he wakes a few hours later, it's dark outside his window, the orange light from the streetlights outside casting shapes on his walls. John gets up, stretches and stumbles down the stairs. He finds Sherlock at the kitchen table, a plate of half eaten pasta at his side and a newspaper spread out in front of him.

"Good sleep?" he asks.

"Not bad," John said. He watches as Sherlock absently spears a forkful of pasta and brings it up to his mouth.

It's paranoid to think that Sherlock timed his dinner so that John would walk in on him eating. It's ridiculous to think that Sherlock is only pretending to read the newspaper to make John feel like he isn't being observed.

Then again, when you live with Sherlock Holmes, very little is ever an accident.

John goes into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. There's a pan half full of pasta mixed with pesto sauce and pieces of shredded chicken still on the stove, and a clean plate with cutlery next to it.

"This for me, then?" John asks.

"Mmm," says Sherlock, and turns a page.

John straightens his shoulders, and steps forward, taking a portion of pasta and bringing it to the table. It's just a bit of dinner, he tells himself. There's absolutely no reason to feel humiliation pricking its way up his spine.

The pasta is very good. The sauce is light, put full of flavour, and the chicken is perfectly tender. Not surprising, he supposes. Sherlock's always been good at anything he's put his mind to.

"You make the sauce yourself?" John asks.

"There was a recipe of the internet." Sherlock says. He flips over the page.

"It's nice," John says. "Anything interesting in that?" he gestures to the newspaper, and Sherlock looks directly at him for the first time, sighing gustily.

"Nothing of any importance,"

"I'm sure something will come up."

"If we aren't all desiccated by boredom before then."

They sit in silence for a while as John diligently clears his plate. When it's finally done, he pushes the plate away with a rattle of cutlery.

"Thank you," he says

Sherlock lifts one eyebrow minutely in what John takes to be a gesture of acceptance.

"You don't have to do this, you know." John says.

Sherlock looks at him, eyebrows raised over the top of the newspaper. "Do what?"

"This," says John. "Shop for me. Cook for me. I can look after myself."

"I made myself dinner," Sherlock says. "There were leftovers."

"You _never_ make yourself dinner," John says and somehow it comes out louder than he'd intended it to, almost at a shout.

Sherlock gives John a very calculated look, and slowly folds the newspaper shut.

"Occasionally I-"

"No, don't give me that," John cuts across him. "When I moved in here you lived off takeaways and Mrs Hudson's biscuits. Don't tell me you-" his chest is starting to feel a little tight, and he has to clench his hand, less to stop it shaking and more to try and smother the overwhelming urge he has to punch the table. "Don't tell me this has nothing to do with me."

Sherlock hesitates, his eyes passing over John's face . "A little," he says. "Both of our eating habits could be considered to be unhealthy. Your illness made me realise it might benefit both of us to alter them."

"Right," John says, looking away. "Great."

He can feel Sherlock looking at him, head tilted consideringly, for what feels like a very long time.

"Would you prefer to do the shopping and cooking yourself, then?" Sherlock says at last.

There's an energy prickling through John, sharp and dangerous. "I'd _prefer_ ," he snaps. "For you to act like yourself."

There's a short pause.

"Myself," Sherlock repeats.

"That's right," John meets his eyes, those ice cool, too calm and rational blue eyes. " Yourself. Selfish Sherlock Holmes who doesn't care about anything as long as he gets what he wants, and certainly doesn't spend his time bloody reading up gourmet recipes on the internet for his nutcase flatmate. That's what I want!"

Sherlock's expression doesn't alter, as he stares back unblinkingly at John for several long moments. He gets to his feet, in one quick dignified movement.

"If that's what you want," he says icily, and walks straight past John and into his bedroom, closing the door with an audible click. John doesn't see him for the rest of the night.

*

There's no sign of Sherlock the next morning either. An empty coffee cup left unwashed on the counter tells John he's probably been up and may be out already. When John opens the fridge, it's empty, except a single box shoved right at the back containing what looks like several sets of wisdom teeth.

John makes himself tea, and contemplates the fact that he's behaved like a massively ungrateful prick to the man who's provided him with uncomplaining support for the last six months. He sighs and battles the urge to just lay his head down on the kitchen counter and give up. _John Watson, why do you have to screw everything up?_

"Yoo-hoo!" Mrs Hudson calls, entering the flat. John forces himself to straighten and smile at her.

"Hello, Mrs Hudson."

"I thought I'd pay you a quick visit," Mrs Hudson says. "See how you are this morning. Settling in again all right?"

"Oh yes," John says. "Perfect. Um, can I make you a cup of tea? I don't think we've got any biscuits."

"Not to worry," Mrs Hudson says. "Actually I brought you up some of my cherry scones," she pats the biscuit tin she is holding. "Just the once, to welcome you home," she adds. "I'm not your housekeeper."

"That's very kind." John says.

He makes her some tea and they sit together. John picks open one of Mrs Hudson's scones and tries to force himself to eat some of it. It's delicious, naturally, but his stomach feels like it's recently been pumped full of molten lead.

"It must be strange being back after all this time," Mrs Hudson says, her eyes following John's restless picking at the scone. John takes a breath and tries to force himself to stop fiddling with it.

"Takes a bit of getting used to," John admits.

"Well, I imagine it would, with that one," Mrs Hudson says, gesturing vaguely at the flat as if to indicate the general level of chaos Sherlock usually left in his wake. "And of course the weather in New Zealand must be much nicer. I remember when I first came back from Florida, to all this endless damp and dark, I thought I'd never feel cheerful again."

John looks at Mrs Hudson, at her kindly concerned eyes and makes a decision. She's been too kind to them to justify hiding things from her, and risk having Sherlock snap at her for no reason. He puts down his scone, and takes a breath.

"Actually, Mrs Hudson," he says. "I-er. I wasn't in New Zealand."

"No?" says Mrs Hudson. "Sherlock said-"

"I asked him to lie for me," John says. "I didn't want people knowing. I was in hospital."

Mrs Hudson's eyes widen in alarm, her hand flying up to her mouth.

"Nothing serious " John says hastily. "I mean. Nothing to worry about. I had an – have an, um, eating disorder. I'd got a bit - unwell and I needed some therapy and things to help get sorted out."

"Oh," says Mrs Hudson. "Oh, you poor dear," she leans forward, patting at his hand. "Well, that explains everything – I wondered that Sherlock would let you go all that way for so long and not follow you!"

John smiles weakly. "Well. He doesn't follow me everywhere."

"You know, a niece of mine had an eating disorder," Mrs Hudson says, head tilted to one side thoughtfully. "Poor thing. So difficult for young people these days to know where they are, with all this new media nonsense. It's all twitters and selfies and vajazzles these days. It's no wonder people get confused about how they are supposed to look."

John choked on his tea. "That's, um, not an immediate concern for me. Vajazzles."

"Well, no, I suppose not," Mrs Hudson says. "Although all I'm saying, in my day young people didn't feel the need to be putting things on their-"

"Maybe another scone?" John cuts across her, a little alarmed by where this conversation might go.

Mrs Hudson looks at him severely. "You haven't finished the first one yet, dear."

"Right," John says sheepishly. "Sorry," he takes a bite.

Mrs Hudson looks at him for a moment, her eyes full of concern. "I hope you know, dear," she says. "If you're ever having trouble, you can always talk to me."

"I know," John says. "Thank you."

"I'm a dotty old bag," she says. "But I'd never think the worse of you for any trouble you had."

"No," John says, looking down his scone, his throat unexpectedly tight. "I know. I owe you and Sherlock a lot."

"And we owe you just as much," Mrs Hudson says firmly. "Speaking of which, where is Sherlock? He never usually misses my scones."

"I don't know," John looks down at his plate again. "We – we had a bit of an argument, last night."

"Oh dear," Mrs Hudson. "Well, I'm sure he'll understand when he's had time to cool off a little,"

"I said he didn't care about anyone else. When, I know he does, he's just-"

"Just Sherlock," Mrs Hudson finishes.

"Yes," John says. "I don't know why I – I just don't like to see him behaving differently because I'm.. because I've been a bit of a mess."

Mrs Hudson raises her eyebrows. "Well, dear, I very much doubt he thinks of it like that."

John looks at her questioningly.

"I know he has a funny way of showing it sometimes," Mrs Hudson says. "But I don't believe there's anyone in the world he admires as much as you."

"Admires?" John says.

"Oh, yes, goodness. You should hear him talk about you when you aren't there. John this , John that, and what do I think will John think if he does this. The silly thing."

John turns this idea over in his head, and tries to imagine the aloof and endlessly intelligent detective admiring John Watson. Wanting his approval. Unbidden an image comes to his mind of Sherlock, aloof face slightly crumpled in concentration, or perhaps alarm turning to John. "Not good?". He'd so often looked to John to tell him if he was doing the right thing.

And John had told him he was selfish.

"Well, dear," Mrs Hudson pats his hand again. "I'd better be on my way. I promised Mrs Turner I'd be in to see her later, and there's my laundry to do. But you give me a bell if you need any help with anything. I'll leave the scones here for the two of you,"

"Thank you," says John. "Mrs Hudson, really. Thanks a lot."

"My pleasure, dearie," and to his surprise she learn over and plants a quick kiss on the top of his head. "It's nice to have you back."

*

Sherlock is out for most of the rest of the day. John sits on the sofa, fiddling for a bit with his laptop, and then tries to read a book. He can't concentrate. It draws on to lunch time, and John thinks he should probably go to the shops and get something to eat, or down to Speedy's for a soup but somehow he can't bring himself to walk out of that door. Anyway, it's better to wait for Sherlock. Isn't it? He doesn't want to miss his chance to apologise. He stays still and ignores the sound of his stomach growling.

Sherlock arrives in the evening, and spares John only a brief cold glance, before heading straight to his room.

"Sherlock!" John calls after him. "Sherlock!" he knocks at his door but there's no reply. Feeling wretched, John goes back the couch.

Sherlock emerges an hour later with wet hair and immediately heads to the tin of scones Mrs Hudson left, and stuffing one in his mouth while standing at the counter. At a guess, he hasn't eaten much today either.

"Sherlock," John says again, tentatively.

Sherlock turns to look at him. "What do you want?"

John hesitates. "Pass me a scone?"

Sherlock looks blankly at him for a moment and then tosses a scone at him.

"Thanks," John says, catching it and then walks into the kitchen after him. "Look. What I said last night –"

Sherlock turns his back to John, a hard unbroken line. John swallows. He might have known Sherlock wouldn't make this easy.

"I was being a git," John continues, determinedly. The tension in Sherlock's back tells John that he's listening, at least. "What I said wasn't true. I'm sorry. I just. I was scared that I'd changed you and I didn't want that."

There is a pause, and then, very slowly Sherlock turns to look at him. His face is impassive, but the hand is squeezing his scone rather tight.

"What part do you consider to be untrue?" he says.

"What?"

"Your description of my personality was accurate, for the most part," said Sherlock. "I am selfish and uncaring."

"No," John says. "God, no. You aren't."

"I am. I always have been, with very rare exceptions." Sherlock says. His eyes drift away from John's, and he his voice seems to have slipped an octave lower when he adds. "Most of those exceptions referring to you."

"Sherlock-" John says, and stops because he doesn't know how to continue.

Sherlock's eyes turn back to him, and John sees an expression flash over his face too quickly for John to properly quantify it: it could have been anger, or perhaps fear. Then of a sudden Sherlock has reaching out, gripping John by the forearms. His back bumps into the edge of the kitchen counter. Sherlock is looming over him, face pale and intent.

"Sherlock, what-"

"John, I want you to listen to me because I don't intend to say this more than once." Sherlock says through bared teeth. "You have changed me. Immeasurably. I am not the same man I was before I met you. I am not nearly so selfish or so unaware. What's more I consider that change to be the best thing ever happened to me."

John stares at Sherlock, feeling suddenly as if the air has been sucked out of his lungs and gone – somewhere.

"Please understand me," Sherlock says. "When I tell you that asking me to change back into what I was is one of the most insulting things you could say."

John stares at him, suddenly breathless. "I-"

"Do you understand me, John?" Sherlock's eyes search John's, a little frantically.

"Yes," John whispers.

"Good," Sherlock says, and abruptly lets go of John walks out of the kitchen towards his room.

"Wait-" says John. Sherlock turns to look at him, frowning.

"What you said – what you just said was – good." John says, stepping back towards him.

Sherlock's brow unfolds slowly, creases smoothing out."It was?"

"Very good," John says. "Thank you."

"Well," Sherlock says, suddenly looking uncertain.

"I think you should know," John says. "You make me a better person too. God knows, I was a miserable grumpy sod before you came along into my life,"

"Regular bursts of adrenaline -"

"It's not just the adrenaline, you mad git." John says. "It's you,"

Sherlock ducks his head for a brief moment, considering this, then looks up with an odd half smile. "Us," he corrects.

"Us, yeah. " John is beginning to feel a slightly embarrassing grin spread over his face. He looks away and clears his throat. "Speaking of which," he says. "Tomorrow. I think we should sit down and sort some stuff out. You know. Shopping. Eating. All of that. We should set some ground rules, together."

"Together," Sherlock repeats, brow furrowing thoughtfully. "Excellent idea."

*

Sherlock meets John at the breakfast table the next morning with a notepad and a very serious expression. John feels an odd lurch in his stomach at the sight of him: half fondness, half pure nerves.

Talking about food. Even with Sherlock it was never exactly going to be fun.

Sherlock's eyes are narrowed slightly, clearly taking in John's reaction.

"Coffee?" he says.

"Coffee." John agrees, taking a seat and watching as Sherlock pours a cup for him. "So."

"So," Sherlock agrees, leaning his elbows on the table and steepling his fingers. "Items to discuss. First of all: shopping."

"I thought," John clears his throat, and shifts in his chair a little. "Just at first, maybe we could do it together. You know, then we can both get things we like, and, um, it won't be…" he stops short. He doesn't want to say it, but he doesn't quite think he can face the idea of navigating the brightly coloured food-packed aisles of Sainsbury's on his own just yet. And the thought of Sherlock doing his shopping for him makes John's throat close up in panic, for some reason.

"Excellent idea," Sherlock says. "It is an area where we both lack skills. Between the two of us we will be able to compensate for each other's deficiencies."

"When things have settled down a bit, I can go back to doing more of it."

"If you want," Sherlock says.

"Are you sure that will be OK?" John says. "Trailing around Sainsbury's doesn't seem like your idea of fun especially with – I might be a bit - slow."

"It will be more entertaining with you," Sherlock says. "I'll be able to deduce things, and then you can tell me how clever I am."

John snorts. "Don't count on it."

"We can go this afternoon," Sherlock says. "If you want."

John glances at the empty fridge. "I guess we'd better."

"So," Sherlock opens his notebook, making a notation on his list. Christ, John thinks, he's actually drawn up an agenda.

"Next item: cooking."

"I think we should take it in turns," John says. "Dinner at least. When we don't have a case. Now that I know you're good at it, I'm not letting you get away with making me do it all the time."

"Sounds fair," says Sherlock, mouth quirking up at the corner a little. "You'd prefer to eat together?"

"Yes as long as – you know I don't really liked being watched..."

"I won't make you feel under scrutiny, John." Sherlock says gently. John looks up at him. There's a softness in Sherlock's gaze John hasn't noticed before. It ought to feel patronising, John thinks. He ought to hate it, the way he always hates it when people feel sorry for him. But it doesn't. It feels good. Because, John realises abruptly, this isn't pity. Sherlock isn't looking at him as if he's something broken – instead it's as if he's looking at something precious that he intends to keep safe.

John drops his eyes, and clears his throat suddenly a little flustered.

"Um, so. I think that's all we need to.."

"There's one other thing." and John looks up. Sherlock's expression is all briskness itself, all softness vanished. He taps his pen on the third squiggled item on his list. Other People.

"Other People?" John asks.

"You seemed angry when I attempted to deflect Mrs Hudson's comments about your appearance."

John raises his eyebrows. "That wasn't a deflection so much as a tirade."

"Nevertheless," Sherlock says. "I feel we need a policy on how to handle matters relevant to your illness when encountering others. I don't want to overstep your boundaries again."

"Right," John sighs. "Yeah. You're right," he pauses. "I told Mrs Hudson, you know. About where I'd been."

"I deduced that you would," Sherlock says gravely, and John casts him a suspicious look.

"No, you didn't."

Sherlock's mouth quirks up in one corner.

"I can tell when you're lying, you know." John says.

"Fine," Sherlock says. "I wasn't sure. But I thought you might. You blame yourself for me shouting at her." Sherlock says the last part so flatly, John winces.

"I don't," says John, though that doesn't exactly have the ring of truth about it either.

Sherlock merely shrugs and looks away. "Do you wish to tell anyone else?"

John is quiet, turning the question over in his mind. Does he need to tell anyone else? He thinks of Lestrade, who lets them both in on his crime scenes. Sarah, who has been holding a place open for him at the clinic. Maybe he owes them the truth. But he's not sure he can face the questions ,the concerned eyes everywhere he goes.

"No," he says at last. "Not for now."

Sherlock inclines his head.

"You realise there is a possibility they may make remarks you will find hurtful," Sherlock says.

_It's good to see you with a bit of weight back on._ Mrs Hudson's voice in John's mind takes on an ugly acidic mocking tone. _That's what people say when they're being polite: what they really mean is, you look like a whale. You make them sick._

Shut _up._

"I know that." John says, trying to push his thoughts away. "And I know you want to help but I don't need a white knight. When they let me out of the clinic, they did it because they thought I was well enough to be able to handle this stuff, even if it does still upset me. And I am." He meets Sherlock's eyes, holding them for a long moment. He sees the flicker of acknowledgment in Sherlock's eyes, before he leans back in his chair lip curling exaggeratedly.

"A white knight, John? We really need to correct your metaphorical excesses. What's next, fairies and trolls?"

"For you? I was thinking unicorns might be more appropriate." John says, and Sherlock shoots him a look so scandalised John nearly falls off his seat laughing.

*

John has a therapy appointment next day which means taking the train back out to Riverview. He hasn't been out of the flat much, apart from his shopping trip with Sherlock, and he lingers outside the tube station feeling oddly nervous about the thought of being surrounded by crowds of people again. It's not as bad as he thinks once he gets on though. Good thing about British trains, he thinks wryly, nobody makes eye contact, no matter how ridiculous they think you look. It's a culture tailor-made for neurotics.

Therapy is awkward, as usual. His therapist makes a lot of positive noises when he tells her about his conversation with Sherlock, the rules they'd set together, and although she tilts her notebook away from him, John is pretty sure he saw a curly looking P for progress. She's a little more bemused when John recounts his and Sherlock's trip to Sainsbury's which had got a little sidetracked after Sherlock realised the woman in front of them at the tills was an identify thief using stolen credit cards, and they'd engaged in a confrontation and then a chase that had resulted in widespread havoc and no small amount of spillage in the dairy aisle.

"But we still got the shopping in the end," John assures her. "You know, so it was all fine."

The therapist's eyebrows are still raised slightly and she makes a minute notation on her pad.

"You said you are taking it in turns to cook?"

"Yeah."

"Do you enjoy cooking?"

John considers. "Yeah I – I did. When I had time for it, you know," he hesitates. "I did it more often when – when I was having difficulties with. You know."

"Some people find cooking takes on a ritual quality for them," his therapist says. John finds himself picking at his watch strap. "Sublimating the urge to eat by feeding others."

"Yeah," John says. "I guess I did that sometimes. Especially – with Sherlock. He's a picky eater. I'd get pretty, um, caught up in cooking for him. Seeing if he'd eat or not," he grimaces. "I doubt he'd let me get away with that now, though."

"Do you think your attitude towards cooking for him has changed?"

John pauses. "Not just cooking," he says. "The way things were – the way we were – it's all changed. I – put him on a bit of a pedestal, I guess. But some of the things we've talked about have made me realise – he cares about me. As much as I care about him. We aren't as different as I thought we were."

"I'm very glad to hear you say that, John," his therapist says softly.

*

He meets Mary in the visitor's room after his appointment. She's sitting by the window, green eyes uncharacteristically unfocussed as she looks out across the grounds. She pulls herself together and manages a decent attempt at a smile as he sits beside her.

"I wondered if you'd come back," she says. "Thought you might have got swept up in one of your adventures and forgotten all about us."

"Course not," John says. "I couldn't do that,"

Mary's expression isn't terribly convinced. "So, what's it like?" she asks. "Being back out in the big bad world again."

"Confusing," John says. "But, um. Good. I think."

"And Sherlock?" Mary's eyes glint at him.

"Yeah," John says. "Also good. And also confusing."

Mary laughs. "I can't imagine you'd want it any other way,"

"No," John admits. "No, I wouldn't."

He watches as Mary's smile fades, and her eyes pull away back to the view out of the window again. She's too pale, he thinks, too still. Her lips look raw as if she's been biting them.

"Everything OK here?" he asks gently.

Mary shrugs. "This place doesn't change."

"No Brian?"

"He's got the flu, didn't want to pass it on. He told me to give you his love."

"Right," says John."Thanks."

There's a silence as they both sit and look at the view. John feels like he's waiting for something, though he isn't sure what.

"My husband," says Mary, at last. "Wants a divorce."

"Oh," says John. "God. That must be-" he stops, because actually he doesn't have any idea what it must be like. How would he know?

Mary shakes her head, impatiently. "I haven't been in love with him for a long time. Even before, before Megan died, we were drifting apart. If Megan had lived we would have carried on trying, I suppose. "

"Even so," John says.

"Even so," Mary says. She hesitates. "I haven't signed the forms. I can't bring myself to."

"What's stopping you, do you think?" John asks tentatively.

Mary thinks for a moment. "I think," she says. "Our marriage is all that's left. Of the life we had – the three of us. Of Megan. We were the world to her, everything she knew. She knew me as Alex's wife, as Mary Morstan. It feels like – almost like a betrayal to undo that, to become someone different."

John blows out a breath. "I can see that," he says.

"It isn't fair on him," Mary says. "He's a good man. He deserves the chance to move on. To be happy."

"So do you,"

Mary's face twitches a little at that, and she looks away.

"You do," he repeats.

Mary's looks away at that, her face crumpling a little. John can see a tear edging down her cheek which she swipes away angrily.

"Hey," says John, feeling useless, and reaches out to pat one of her hands. "Hey, hey."

To his surprise, she turns around sharply, throwing her arms around him in a brief rather fierce hug, which John does his best to return.

"Sorry," she says abruptly, pulling back and wiping her face.

"No, no" John says, trying to sound soothing. "Don't be."

"Tears are awful," she says. "Once I get started I can't usually stop."

"I know the feeling." John says, thinking of the dark months after Sherlock's supposed death.

"You know," John says, after a moment, during which Mary takes deep breaths, calming herself. "I've never been married or had kids or any of that, so I'm probably talking bollocks. But it seems to me like you do still love him, in a way. You want him to be happy and that's – even if you aren't together any more – that means something. You don't think you can undo what you had. I don't imagine either of you could stop loving her – could stop being the people who loved her, who were her family - no matter what you are called."

Mary is silent for a long moment, staring ahead of her, and John wonders if she even listened to him. All of a sudden she reaches out, and squeezes his hand.

"You know, John Watson," she says quietly. "You aren't a stupid man."


	2. She's So Heavy

John is home later than Sherlock had expected. Either his session overextended or there are delays on the District and Circle again. He hears the quiet but distinct closing of the door and footsteps on the stairs. Slow, but not worryingly so. Thoughtful, not distressed.

John pauses in the doorway as he enters, takes a deep sniff at the air.

"Something smells good."

"Mmm. Venison stew," Sherlock says, turning back to chopping the parsley he'll use as a garnish.

"Venison?" says John, walking over to join Sherlock in the kitchen. "Bit fancy, isn't it?"

"Butcher on Colliston Road," Sherlock says. "Owes me a favour. He let me keep the deer's brain too."

John pulls a face. "I hope you aren't putting _that_ in the stew."

"I have no desire to contract spongiform encephalopathy, John."

"Right," John says. "Good."

John goes to the sink, and pours himself a glass of water.

Sherlock eyes him. There's a damp spot on his shirt, distinctive. Tissue fragment on his sleeve. Add that to the thoughtful expression -

"Someone's been crying on your shoulder," Sherlock says. "I rather thought the emotional support aspect of therapy was supposed to tend in the other direction."

John smiles. "It wasn't my therapist," he looks at Sherlock with that particular light in his eyes that Sherlock knows is intended as a challenge. He does seem to enjoy watching Sherlock deduce when he already knows the answer.

Sherlock straightens, casting his eyes over John. "Definitely a woman," he says. "From the stain she's left on your shirt, she's smaller than you, very few men can claim that."

John rolls his eyes at the mention of his height, but nods in confirmation.

"The pottery woman," Sherlock states. "Mary. She's had some bad news… death in the family? No. Divorce. Her husband sent her the papers recently."

"Bang on," says John, raising his eyebrows. "How did you know?"

Because, Sherlock thinks, John has clearly put his arms around her, spent some time in close physical proximity. John has a certain prudery about getting physically intimate with married women, particularly woman he is attracted to (which, as far as Sherlock can observe, is most women). An impending divorce might relax John's principles considerably.  
He isn't sure he wants to tell John that however. It never does to encourage one of John's romantic entanglements. They occur far too frequently as it is.

"Shot in the dark," he says instead. "She's been institutionalised for months. That would put strain on any marriage. "

"Would it?"

"Despite what this culture of romanticism would lead you to think, these attachments are rarely unconditional," Sherlock says. "Few people will wait indefinitely."

"Right," John's gaze drops to the floor, a faint frown line appearing between his brows.

Ah, Sherlock reviews the conversation and locates his obvious misstep."Our relationship is different."

"Is it?" John asks.

"We aren't _married_ ," Sherlock says. "We solve crimes together, that's much more important."

There's a brief pause in which John stares at him and then suddenly he throws back his head in a brief shout of laughter. "I might have known you'd see it that way."

He places a hand briefly on Sherlock arm as he passes, and as ever Sherlock fees a brief jolt of surprise at the warmth of it.

"When will dinner be ready?" he asks, heading for his armchair.

"Soon," Sherlock says. "I'm almost finished."

His eyes linger on the back of John's head for a moment as he considers the other words he had tempted to say. _I would wait for you indefinitely._

________________________________________

John is just laying the table and Sherlock is about to dole out the stew when he hears the distinctive growl of Lestrade's car from the street. He freezes, waiting, as the doorbell sounds and Mrs Hudson goes to let the Detective Inspector in.

"You all right?"John asks, looking at him.

"Case, John," Sherlock says, dropping the ladle back in the pot.

Sure enough Lestrade is through the door in a moment.

"Which is it?" Sherlock says. "The missing jewels or the Tower Hamlets stabbing?"

"Neither," says Lestrade. He turns to look at John. "Mate, I didn't know you were back! Good to see…"

"Neither?" Sherlock cuts across the unnecessary social civilities, forcing Lestrade to turn his attention back to him.

"Murder in the London Dungeons at Waterloo," Lestrade says. "One of the ticket takers was found in the control room. Looks like he'd been strangled with a cravat."

"And?"

"And the doors were locked from the inside," Lestrade says. "Electronic lock, could only be locked from the control panel. CCTV was wiped."

"Interesting," Sherlock steeples his hands considering this.

"You coming then?" Lestrade says.

"Yes," Sherlock says, striding over to the coat stand to get his coat. "Go ahead, we'll take a taxi."

Lestrade rolls his eyes briefly at John before leaving. Sherlock puts on his coat and gloves, and turns to see John still sitting at the table.

"Um," says John. "I think I'll sit this one out."

Sherlock blinks. It hadn't occurred to him that John wouldn't be on cases with him again. Is he more unwell than Sherlock had thought? Sherlock takes an unconscious step towards him.

"It's fine," John says. "Just, you know, might be a good idea to take things slowly for a bit. Go ahead. You can tell me about it later."

Sherlock's eyes scan John's face. He doesn't look upset. His shoulders are relaxed and he's still smiling.

"Go on," says John. "There's a locked room murder waiting for you."

That decides Sherlock: he gives a brief nod and follows Lestrade down into the street.

________________________________________

The case is reasonably straight forward, once Sherlock has taken a proper look at the state of the door handle. Their murderer turns out to be one of the exhibit's engineers, a reprisal for too frequent acts of bullying in the workplace.

If the case is disappointingly easy to solve, it does involve a pleasantly bracing chase through the crowds of tourists mobbing the South Bank. Their criminal, seeing policemen approaching from the opposite direction and panicking, makes the rather amusing decision to try and climb up the London Eye as a method of escape. Impressively, he manages to clamber on top of one of the compartments. Lestrade is preparing to follow him when Sherlock points out the obvious: the ride is circular. All they have to do is wait for him to return to earth.

Something of a carnival atmosphere develops as they wait. Donovan sends junior Sergeant Hopkins off to get candy floss and ice cream for the waiting detectives. The sight makes Sherlock think of the venison stew, and of John back at home.

"I'll be leaving you then, Lestrade," he says.

Lestrade gives him a disbelieving look. "You don't want to see what'll happen?"

"It's obvious what will happen. Once he reaches a distance of 30 feet Donovan will attempt to talk him down, and he will respond by jumping and probably break his ankle," Sherlock reaches over and pulls off a piece of Lestrade's candy floss. "Even you should manage to apprehend him after that. In any case, I have more important things to be doing."

________________________________________

He arrives back at the flat to find John lying on the sofa. Not a good sign. As much as Sherlock enjoys lounging about the place, John views such behaviour as an indulgence. Only a particularly strong dose of exhaustion or apathy lays John out.

John sits up as Sherlock enters. The smile that lights up his face is so convincing that Sherlock is almost fooled.

"Solve it already, did you?"

"It was barely a three," Sherlock says. "Lestrade is getting progressively stupider in his old age."

John snorts. "He can't be much older than me, you know. Well, tell me about the case."

"In a minute," Sherlock says. He goes into the kitchen, begins clattering plates, ostensibly preparing his own dinner. The level of stew in the pot hasn't dropped. Has John eaten anything at all? His plate is on the drying board, washed. Sherlock is meant to think he's eaten, in any case. Perhaps John took a few mouthfuls and was able to convince himself it wasn't a lie.

For a moment Sherlock feels a helpless anger flood through him. He can't reproach John, can't question him. That would make him defensive, and worse, guilty. Sherlock has promised himself he won't behave like John's family had. Won't use sighs and reproaches as a mechanism to manipulate John into eating. John responds to guilt the way most people respond to water torture. He folds quickly, but Sherlock is certain something in him is damaged by it.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and ladles out a large bowlful of stew. He brings it out into the sitting room, and sits down on the sofa next to John. John tenses a little, then relaxes with what Sherlock knows must have been an effort of will. Sherlock ignores him, eating with gusto. He can only hope the sight and smell will inspire John's hunger.

It doesn't. Sherlock eats in silence with John watching him, smile growing ever more strained.

"So, the case?" he says as Sherlock puts the bowl down with a sigh.

Sherlock leans back on the sofa, stretching his legs out in front of him and begins to explain. He can't say he feels the same satisfaction in expounding to John as he usually does. There is a heaviness in his chest that he can't seem to shift by talking. John is giggling by the end of the story though which makes it all almost worth it.

"You should write about this one." Sherlock says, eyeing John.

"I wasn't there," John points out.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "As if you've ever let _facts_ get in the way of your writing."

"Oi," John swats him playfully on the arm. "I'll think about it."

"Do," Sherlock says. "Your blog has been sparse lately. How will the general public find meaning in their lives without constant news of my antics?"

"Oh, with great difficulty." John says seriously, the sparkle in his eyes giving him away.

Sherlock looks at him, at the layering of lines on his brow, at the tension of the hand, still clenched on his lap, at his eyes, wide and clear. John's expression shifts in response, eyes tightening at the corners and then relaxing, hand clenching in his lap. It feels like they are having a conversation but Sherlock is not skilled enough to read the meaning behind it. He can tell a world of information from a stain on a shirt, a hair out of place, but faces….

"Time for bed, I reckon." John cuts in to his thoughts. He's on his feet before Sherlock can blink, stretching. "I'll see you in the morning."

He touches Sherlock's shoulder briefly before retreating to his room. Sherlock lies back on the sofa, crossing his hands over his chest and listens to the sounds of John preparing for bed above him.

________________________________________

John eats the next morning, thankfully. Sherlock sips coffee and watches from the corner of his eye as John very deliberately cuts his toast into slices before dipping them into his boiled egg. _Soldiers_ Sherlock thinks, and represses a smile.

Downstairs the bell rings once, sharply. Sherlock and John exchange a glance. _Client_. John gets up and clears his breakfast things away, as they listen to Mrs Hudson chatter to the client and point them up the stairs.

An unusually tall woman, broadly built, with large dark eyes, and short curly hair enters the room.

"Excuse me, are you Sherlock Holmes and John Watson?"

Upper class accent with a buried hint of Derbyshire broadening the vowels. Dress neat and perfectly tailored, in what looked like a retro style but in fact was a 1970s original dress – it has been rehemmed once, and the collar replaced. Watch, expensive, new. She stands awkwardly in her low heels, feet planted wide. She's used to sturdy boots, wellingtons– a woman who spends her life out of doors, for whom the close packed streets of the city must feel like entering a cage.

"That's us." John is at his most charming, ushering her into a seat.

"My name is Hilda Cubitt,"

The woman sits, a little awkwardly.

"You must be tired," Sherlock says. "It's a long drive from Ridling Thorpe, especially so early in the morning."

The woman's mouth falls open. "How did you….?"

"You're clearly a woman who spends a great deal of her life outdoors, from your hands I'd say a farmer. Your bearing and accent say money, your attitude says old money. You can clearly afford to buy new clothes but instead have chosen to adapt an old dress, probably one you owned as a teenager. You are deeply attached to the past, to tradition, always have been. The farm to which you devote your every energy to is not an acquisition but part of your heritage, ancestral lands converted to productive use. Only a few of those are still run by the original families, not chopped up and sold off. Your accent points to Derbyshire. There is only one old manor house in Derbyshire which fits that description: Ridling Thorpe."

"Yes," The woman says. "That's all – quite correct. Well done."

Behind her, Sherlock sees John fight a smile.

"Well," Sherlock says. "Your problem clearly a matter of some import to you if you've travelled all this way. What is it?"

Hilda fidgets a little in her chair. "I recently entered into a civil partnership. My partner Elsa," she bites her lip.

"Go on." John says.

"I feel disloyal coming to you," Hilda says. "I promised never to pry into her secrets and I don't want to. But recently, she's seemed so – afraid. I don't know what to do."

"When you say afraid…"

"She has panic attacks. She barely sleeps anymore. I've tried asking her what's wrong but she just snaps at me. It's so unlike her."

"Something in particular happened to trigger these panic attacks," Sherlock prompts. The woman looks at him in surprise. "Oh, don't look at me like that – there's a reason you're consulting a detective rather than a psychiatrist."

"The first time – we were out in the garden and she just suddenly stopped in her tracks, started hyperventilating. I was too worried at the time to think of it, but when I came back to the spot where she stopped I noticed there was something drawn in chalk on the garden path. Stick figures."

"I don't suppose you made a copy?" John asks.

"I took a photo," Hilda takes out her phone and shows them both.

"They look like they're dancing, don't they?" Hilda says. She's right. The stick figures are drawn in lines, caught in various positions, arms flung up or out, as if in celebration. "I noticed a post it note with the same figures tucked under our car windscreen wipers the next day," Hilda says. "But Elsa picked it up before I had the chance to look at it. There was another one scratched on a fence post in the farm, and on the barn wall. Each time Elsa was very distressed - but she wouldn't talk about it."

"I've always known there were things in her past she didn't want discussed. I was happy to respect her wishes – but. It's hard to see someone you love suffer and not be able even to speak to them about it for fear of making it worse."

Sherlock swallows, and is careful not to look at John.

"I take it you did not manage to photograph any of the other messages?"

Hilda shakes her head.

Sherlock pauses, considering. Then he nods.

"I need you to return home, and look for as many examples of the stick men as you can. Undoubtedly your partner has received more than you are aware of, and is most likely keeping them somewhere."

"I don't think-"

"If I'm right, these messages are code," Sherlock says. "I have seen similar codes used by various criminal organisations in Europe. Elsa may be in very real danger, and we will not be able to help her unless we understand its nature. If there was ever a time to put scruples aside, this is it."

Hilda hesitates. "I don't want to pry into her secrets…"

"If the messages prove to be harmless and private in nature, I will not inform you of their content." Sherlock says. "You needn't be concerned about breaking her trust without good reason."

Hilda's eyes widen, but then she nods slowly. "Elsa will be out tonight," she says. "I'll take a look in her things and if I find any dancing men, I'll email you."

"Excellent."

Hilda stands, and reaches out, her large dry hand taking Sherlock's. "Thank you," she says. "For listening to me. It's a weight off my mind."

"Email me the photo you have," Sherlock says. "I'll begin examining it now."

"I will," Hilda says, and turns to shake John's hand. "Dr Watson, thank you."

Sherlock turns to his laptop as soon as Hilda leaves, rooting through his old files to find information on criminal codes. John quietly goes to the kitchen, and comes back with a cup of coffee which he places by Sherlock's elbow.

"Any luck?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "Only a matter of time, John." He says, and takes a swig of the drink.

Sherlock narrows the code down to a couple of variations, all associated with criminal gangs based in Scandanavia. The meaning will be harder to decipher and he needs a larger sample to be able to recognise patterns. Frustratingly little can be done until he receives Hilda's email.

It's late in the evening when Sherlock's email finally pings with a message from Hilda. She's sent him copies of several dancing men messages written on post it notes. Apparently, Elsa has been collecting them. Sherlock copies down the figures and begins work on trying to crack the code. It's morning before he manages it – Sherlock is dimly aware of a faint smell of coffee and toast when everything finally clicks into place.

"Oh," he says.

"Got it?" John says, coming in from the kitchen in his dressing gown.

Sherlock stares at him. "I need to go to Derbyshire," he says. "Elsa Cubitt is in grave danger."

________________________________________

Hilda Cubitt isn't picking up her phone. Instead Sherlock rings the Derbyshire police on the way to the station, and initiates what proves to be an extremely frustrating conversation. By the time finally Sherlock manages to extract a promise that they will check in on the Cubitts he is on board a train North, watching the landscape of London streaming away from him outside the window.

Sherlock has nothing to do but stare at the grey morning face of the businessman opposite him (travelling to Leicester, sales conference, two children, one cat, toothbrush in need of replacement). Sherlock takes out his phone, and texts John.

_Trains are unbearable. SH_

The reply is immediate. _Should have taken a book._

_Ridiculous suggestion. Moronic. You're an imbecile. SH_

_Get yourself a cup of tea from the trolley. Take deep breaths. You'll be there soon._

_This is abominably slow. I should have borrowed Mycroft's helicopter. SH_

_But then you'd owe him a favour. You know you'd hate that._

_Not at all. He's still in my debt for keeping silent about the cucumber incident. SH_

_The… what now?_

_Oops SH_

_I will never understand how the pair of you work_

_And for the record I never want to_

_Wise choice. SH_

_Are Elsa and Hilda really in as much trouble as all that?_

_Possibly. SH_

_OK, well. You've done all you can, right? Phoned the police?_

_Certainly. The chief constable seems to be doing double duty as village idiot. SH_

_But he said he'd look into it._

_Yes. Eventually. SH._

_Your advice is terrible, by the way SH_

_My advice?_

_About the tea. I've never tasted anything worse in my life. SH_

_And you eat things that come out of our fridge._

_Exactly. SH._

_Arriving at Doncaster. Finally. SH_

_Good luck._

________________________________________

Sherlock is too late. It's obvious as soon as he approaches the Cubitt household – the local police are already unfurling crime scene tape.  
Sherlock walks slowly up the garden path, taking in the details of the scene – blood, from a head wound, sprayed in distinctive pattern against the wall. Footprints in the soft grass where the assailant had attempted to flee. And the body of a woman stretched out on the grass. Hilda Cubitt had died trying to protect her wife.  
Sherlock stares for several long minutes, then turns away.

________________________________________

It's evening by the time Sherlock finally arrives home. Hilda's attacker, Nils Ingesson, has left hospital and is now in police custody. His motive is pitifully banal – he is an ex of Elsa's, recently released from prison and enraged to find out that she had moved on in the meantime. Elsa is still in intensive care.

The light is low in the flat – John sits in front of the television, the blue light emitted by the screen playing over his face. _Police are saying the man who attacked the women in their Derbyshire home is…_ John reaches for the remote, shutting the television off.

"You heard," Sherlock says.

John nods. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock shoulders off his coat and sits in his chair, stretching out his legs. He closes his eyes, and undergoes the process of filing away the day's information - what little that may be gained from the case labelled, locked up, and put away so that the rest can be deleted.

When he's finally done he opens his eyes feeling better, cleaner, and finds John watching him, expression anxious.

"Dinner?" John asks. "I don't suppose you've eaten today."

"Hmmm," says Sherlock, and sure enough there's a familiar hollowness in his stomach now he thinks to check it. "Perhaps a takeaway. I fancy Bengal House, how about you?"  
He thinks he sees John flinch, and opens his mouth to suggest they cook instead but John has already picked up his phone, and is dialling.

They eat quickly and in silence. They don't bother with cutlery, instead tearing off pieces of naan bread and using it to scoop up the curry. Once they are done, John takes the empty cartons to throw away, and Sherlock leans back, closing his eyes. He's more tired than he usually is following a case, the heavy food on his stomach, and the pleasant sounds of John moving in the kitchen more effective than a lullaby.

The washing up sounds pause and Sherlock hears John pad quietly past him. There's a rush of air and a slight increase in weight on his limbs. Clearly John thinks he is asleep already, and has taken the opportunity to cover him with a blanket. A peculiarity of the human condition, Sherlock thinks, that somehow pulling a blanket over one's own body is infinitely less pleasing than having someone else do it for you. At least, if that someone happens to be John. Sherlock has certainly never felt quite so moved by Anderson's attempts to foist a shock blanket onto him.

Sherlock smiles to himself and lets his mind wander, drifting off into the warm dark.

________________________________________

He wakes to a sensation of pressing cold. Freezing air seems to be forcing itself into his lungs. He tries to take a breath but finds he can't.  
When he opens his eyes he realises Hilda Cubitt is in the chair with him, her legs wedged between his thighs, chest pressing against his, crushing the air out of his lungs.  
"You're getting blood on my chair," he says, looking at the leaking head wound at the corner of her temple.

"Brains too," Hilda says unconcernedly. She reaches a hand up to the bullet hole and swivelling a finger inside it. She smiles a moment, and presses the gory finger to Sherlock's lips. It tastes of curry.

"I deleted you." Sherlock says. His words are stifled due to lack of breath, like the creak of a door.

"Yes," Hilda says, her icy breath brushing over his face. "Not exactly infallible though, are you?"

Sherlock doesn't know how to respond to that so he tries to shift away in the chair. Her weight pins him in place.

"The worst thing," Hilda says. "Is that I know she'll blame herself."

Sherlock blinks for a moment trying to follow her meaning. "Elsa?"

"People like your John, and my Elsa. They've spent their lives fighting alone and they don't know how to share the battle field. It's our job to teach them. I was too late." Her eyes turn toward Sherlock. "I expect you'll be too late too."

Sherlock swallows, staring at her. "I won't," he tries to say, but the air seems to be have been forced out of him. All he can manage is a gasp.

"It's not been a good showing so far, has it, Mr Observant?" Hilda says.

Sherlock hears a low rumbling somewhere far above him, like thunder. Hilda's head rolls on her neck, her mouth falling open. Suddenly face looks as dead as it had when he'd seen her body in Derbyshire. She slumps forward over him. Sherlock can taste decaying flesh, can feel it filling his nose, his mouth. He's being buried alive in her.

Desperately he scrambles to get out from under her weight, body jerking sharply – and wakes.

He is alone in his chair, his blanket tangled around his chest. He reaches over to the table to switch on a lamp. The room is empty - no dead clients anywhere to be seen. Everything is as in its place, illuminated by the yellow street light filtering in through the windows. It's quiet, barring the occasional rushing sound of a late night cab passing on the street beneath him.

For some reason the sense of prickling unease lingers.

Sherlock gets to his feet, and hesitating for just a second, climbs the stairs to John's room. No harm in checking.

The door to John's room is ajar and Sherlock can see at a glance, empty, covers in a crumpled heap at the foot of the bed. A crack of light shines under the bathroom door. Sherlock approaches slowly.

There is no sound from inside and Sherlock hesitates for a moment, thinking of Hilda. _I don't want to pry into her secrets_. He knocks, softly.

"John?"

There is no response. Sherlock clears his throat, and turns the handle. The door isn't locked. He pushes it open slowly enough for John to react if he doesn't want Sherlock to come in.

John is sitting on the floor by the toilet, head tipped back against the tiles. He opens his eyes to meet Sherlock's, and for a moment the expression in them is worryingly vague and unfocused. Then John seems to realise Sherlock is looking at him, because his posture changes, shoulders tensing, head twisting away to avoid his gaze.

Sherlock thinks of the meal they had shared that evening. He'd been too focussed on his own hunger to notice the way John had been eating, fast, frantic. They rarely finished an entire order between them, but last night there had been no leftovers. Something has tipped one of John's invisible tripwires, tumbled him into an old pattern of behaviour. Binge and purge.

In itself, a relapse is not exactly surprising. Inevitable, one might say. What is disconcerting is the defeat written into every line of John's posture, the shame that has left his usually proudly upright frame curled in on itself on the bathroom floor.

Sherlock searches his memory, trying to recall the strategy he'd developed for situations like this. He finds nothing but a humming blank. Should he give John space? Fetch him water? Is he supposed to take John's averted head, and downcast eyes, as an implicit rejection of his presence or should he be providing comfort? The thought of leaving John here feels entirely wrong. But what if he is making things worse?

Deciding, he steps into the bathroom and, eyes on John, slides to the floor opposite him. He is distant enough to provide John an impression of space should be require it but close enough, he hopes, to imply solidarity. John's breath hitches, and Sherlock thinks his shoulders relax just a little. He still doesn't look at Sherlock, so Sherlock waits.  
The floor is cold – this room has always been poorly heated and after a few minutes Sherlock's arse starts to ache with the chill. John, in his thin t-shirt and pyjama bottoms must be even colder though he doesn't show any signs of it. Sherlock wonders perhaps the floor leaching away his body heat might grow a fraction warmer for it and that might transmit itself to John's portion of the room. He hopes so.

Eventually John raises his head, his eyes slowly travelling over the room to rest on Sherlock's face. His gaze drops away almost immediately but the connection is enough to decide Sherlock to try speaking.

"The first time I left Riverview," he says. "I almost died."

John's eyes rise again to his – curious in spite of himself. Sherlock knows he wonders about Sherlock's past, that much is obvious from the little glances he always gives Sherlock when the subject comes up, although he never asks directly.

"It was an overdose," Sherlock continues. "I misjudged the quantity required by my body – the resistance I'd formed had been lowered considerably by the detoxification programme. A painfully obvious mistake, the kind I thought myself too clever for."

John's lips part, but he doesn't say anything. The reliable expression of sympathy spreads across his face.

"I hadn't even intended to get high that night. My spell in rehab had been ordered by Mycroft: I'd believed it was unnecessary. I was not an addict. A drug user, certainly, a heavy one at times but not - dependent. I intended to steer clear of illicit substances for a few weeks after leaving Riverview simply to assert my independence of the habit, to show my brother how wrong he'd been to institutionalise me."

"I told myself when I visited the club where I usually procured drugs, that I could simply pop in, touch my base my contacts and leave. I told myself when I bought the drugs that they were for future use, that I wouldn't actually take them now. By the time I'd got into the loos and began the preparations to shoot up, I'd run out of lies to tell myself."

John is looking at the floor again, but Sherlock can tell he's listening. Sherlock shifts a little on the uncomfortable floor, and continues.

"I'd been so certain of my own willpower. I believed – genuinely – that I wasn't like the others. That once I put my mind to it, I'd be able to stop. But there I was with a needle in my arm, feeling as if I hardly knew how I'd found myself there. I hadn't been able to resist for even 24 hours."

"So… you went back?" John asks, his voice a little hoarse. Sherlock feels a flood of relief at hearing it. "To Riverview?"

Sherlock nods. "Naturally, Mycroft took very little time in ensuring that. The second time I was released I lasted longer. And when I relapsed again, I checked myself back in voluntarily."

"And now," John says. "You're… better."

Sherlock smiles. "That's an optimistic statement. I haven't taken anything in a couple of years. There are certain places, certain situations I still avoid. Better that my strength remain untested, where possible."

John nods. "If you ever need me to, I can…"

"Yes," Sherlock says, meeting John's eyes. "I know, John."

The silence between them feels a little more comfortable now.

"There is something about bathrooms. I think every single one of my relapses took place in one," Sherlock says.

"Private," John comments.

"Yes, and an easier clean up. They also make excellent murder scenes."

John's mouth twitches at one corner. Sherlock counts it as a victory.

"I'll bear that in mind."

There is a silence in which John stares at his feet, and Sherlock pretends to stare at the towel rack, while in fact watching John in the mirrored reflection.  
Perhaps it would make things worse, but Sherlock has to know.

"Why today?"

John goes still again. Then, looking up at Sherlock, he shrugs.

"The case, " guesses Sherlock.

John blows out a breath. "I dunno. Maybe."

"We've lost clients before."

"Yes, I – yes, we have." John looks away, past Sherlock, eyes unfocused. "Would we – would you have.." John trails off, still staring at a point past Sherlock as if it was somehow entrancing.

"John." Sherlock says, trying to make his tone sound gentle and not irritable (he isn't sure he succeeds.)

"Nothing," says John. "It doesn't matter."

"Clearly it does," Sherlock snaps, and instantly bites his lip, regretting it.

John looks at him, eyes focussing at last. His hands tighten and then relax.

"I wondered if you'd have gone with her," John says. "To Derbyshire, right away, if I hadn't been…" he nodded to the bathroom around him.

"If you hadn't recently been unwell." Sherlock says.

John nods, lips tightening a little.

Well, Sherlock thinks. His theory about John and guilt was apparently bang on the money.

"Perhaps," he says. "I didn't think of it consciously at the time, but I can't claim it wasn't a factor."

John nods, as if this is the verdict he'd been expecting. "She might still be alive if you had. They both might-"

"It's possible," Sherlock says. "On the other hand, I can't be certain of the odds of my disarming a madman with a gun. I might have died with her."

John shudders. "No – you wouldn't…"

"Probably not," Sherlock says. He waits a moment, gathering the words he wants to use. "A butterfly flaps it's wings in Brazil and causes an earthquake in Japan. One does not usually blame the butterfly. Causality is a complicated thing."

"I know that," John says.

"I wonder if you do," Sherlock says. "You want me to say that your eating disorder led to my taking a less proactive stance in this case and led to the death of our client. I wonder if you have considered any of the other variables in the instance – my own choice to stay, and remote operate remotely by email. Elsa's choice to secrete threatening notes rather than immediately asking for help. The slow response of local police. Perhaps most pertinently the gunman's choice to shoot Hilda at point blank range."

"Yes, I-"

"If one is to take your logic to its natural extreme, one might look at the factors that caused your eating disorder. You were bullied at school, should we find the culprits and ask them to account for the part they played in Hilda Cubitt's murder?"

John glares at him. "Of course not. I'm not a – I made my own choices."

"And yet you seem insistent on taking credit for my choices," Sherlock says. "And Nils Ingesson's choices, and Elsa Cubitt's and everyone else with a role to play in Hilda's murder."

"That is not-" John says. "that is not _remotely_ what I was getting at."

"Oh? What am I missing?"

John's mouth opens as if searching for words.

"Do you blame me for Hilda Cubitt's death?"

"Of course not!"

"But I am one link closer in the chain of causality, am I not?"

"You –"says John. "You were trying to help me." A flush has spread across John's cheeks.

Sherlock regards him for a moment. "Why did you refuse to attend cases with me?"

John hesitates. "I'm not in the best shape. Not – like I was."

"And why does that matter?"

"I could make a mistake. Not be there when you need me. You could be hurt."

"So," says Sherlock. " _You_ were attempting to protect _me_. If it is intentions that matter to you in this instance, our moral position is very similar."

"I –" John says, an expression of frustration on his face, that Sherlock is inspite of itself transforming into a smile. "You don't – you can't _logic_ me into feeling better."

Sherlock smiles, smugly. John laughs.

"All right," he says. "You annoying dick." It's said with such affection, Sherlock can't help smiling.

"Sometimes," Sherlock says. "Logic is all we have."

Sherlock thinks for a moment of the grounds at Riverview. Of walking out in the gardens, the second time around, his limbs aching with withdrawal, scattered darts of pain shooting through his head. _I can think of eight different ways to struggle drugs into this place._ It had taken a the construction of a system of thought as brutal as it was efficient for him to control his urges – to force him to ignore pain, desire. And yet sometimes, he still…

"Hey," Sherlock blinks. John has got to his feet and is standing in front of him. He holds out a hand to Sherlock.

"Tea?" he says.

Sherlock takes the hand and pulls himself to his feet. John looks up at him, smiling slightly now eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that Sherlock has discovered means both amusement and concern.

"Tea," he says. "Good."

He follows John down the stairs.


End file.
